Leonardo and the Death Machine

by Robert J. Harris

  “What’s happened to the portrait?”

  “It was so badly damaged in the struggle you had with Neroni and his man, I’ll have to start again from scratch. Fortunately that means Lorenzo no longer expects it in a couple of days time. I’ll soon be recovered enough to do it all myself.”

  “What about your friends the Medici?” Leonardo asked. “Don’t they understand that Tomasso’s murder is part of a plot against them?”

  “Piero de’ Medici, Il Gottoso, is stricken with his usual gout and has retired to his villa in the country. Lorenzo is here in the city, but he has no basis to act against Neroni. Neroni and his puppet Luca Pitti grow bolder by the day. They’ve gathered so many men at Pitti’s palace they’ve as good as taken over the Oltrarno. There’s even a rumour the Duke of Ferrara is on his way with an army to support them.”

  They were suddenly silenced by the slap of sandals on the floor outside the room. Then the door swung open.

  Instinctively, Leonardo dived behind a table. Fresina tried to dodge into hiding, but bumped into Sandro who was trying to block her from sight. The girl fell into his arms and that was how Sandro’s mother found them as she stepped into the room with a fresh plate of sweet pastries in her hand.

  Red-faced, Sandro pushed Fresina away and made a flustered attempt to straighten his tunic. There was a mischievous glint in the old woman’s eye. “I brought you some pastries to keep you going until lunch. I didn’t know you had company.”

  “Company?” Sandro squeaked. “No, no, she’s…she’s…a model.”

  “A model?”

  “Yes, her name is…Proserpina.”

  “I didn’t see her come in.”

  “She came in…er…she came…” Sandro stammered helplessly.

  “I came in through the window,” Fresina interjected. “I could not find the front door.”

  His mother squinted at Fresina and tutted. “She’s very thin for a model. She should eat more.”

  “That is true,” Fresina agreed, helping herself to the plate of pastries and settling down in the corner to devour them.

  Sandro ushered his mother out and collapsed against the door. Leonardo emerged from hiding and wiped the sweat from his brow.

  “He is a very poor liar,” Fresina commented through a mouthful of pastry.

  “Not all of us are born to it,” said Leonardo.

  “And what is that stupid name, Prosperina?” Fresina snorted.

  “ProsERpina,” Sandro corrected her. “A Roman goddess of the Netherworld. It seemed appropriate somehow.”

  “Look, Sandro,” Leonardo interrupted, “the only chance I have of getting out of this is to expose whatever plot Neroni and his gang are brewing, and this is the only crack I have at it.” He pulled out the drawing and spread it out before him.

  “That again?” groaned Sandro. “I know you can’t resist trying to solve a puzzle, but there are serious matters at stake here.”

  “It’s more than a puzzle,” Leonardo insisted. “Tell me what you know about Silvestro.”

  “Well, it’s a sad story,” Sandro recalled. “Silvestro was a pupil of the famous artist Donatello and showed great promise from an early age. Until a couple of years ago he had a thriving business, a large shop and more than a dozen apprentices. But then he fell into bad company, drinking and gambling. It was about that time his design for the tomb of Cosimo de’ Medici was rejected. From then on Silvestro’s decline became even more extreme.”

  “Yes, it all makes sense,” mused Leonardo. “He will do anything now for enough money to re-establish his career, and added to that, he has a grudge against the Medici.”

  “That still doesn’t tell us what this drawing of yours is supposed to be,” said Sandro.

  Fresina ducked around Sandro’s shoulder and peered at the drawing. “It is a spell,” she said, chewing on a pastry. “I have seen shamans in Circassia draw patterns like this in the earth to cast curses upon their enemies.”

  Sandro took an uneasy step away from her. “Well, I’m no more an engineer than you are,” he said to Leonardo, “and I can’t tell what it’s supposed to be. Do you think it’s a siege engine?”

  “No, the dimensions are written here,” said Leonardo. He paused to wipe away the crumbs that had fallen on to the paper from Fresina’s pastry. “It would be no bigger than that chair over there.”

  “Then I don’t see what sort of threat it could be,” said Sandro. “Are you sure you haven’t left something out?”

  Leonardo tugged at his hair and cast his mind back. He remembered now that Silvestro had flipped the drawing over. And there were some scribbles on the back. “Yes,” he said, “there was more. Not part of the diagram, but some sort of writing on the back of the sheet.”

  He picked up a piece of charcoal and carefully drew in a set of symbols in the top left-hand corner of the paper. Sandro leaned close and peered at them.

  The first was a circle with an arrow projecting out of it to the left. Next, a cross with a hook attached to the left arm. And finally another circle with a cross hanging from the bottom of it.

  “And what’s this you’re adding?” Sandro asked as Leonardo sketched in some further details.

  “Well, there were lines radiating downward from the symbols towards a plain circle a few inches below,” said Leonardo. “Then more circles and lines.”

  “It looks like angles are being measured,” Sandro suggested.

  “But what about the signs?” said Leonardo. “I’ve never seen anything like them. Is it some foreign script?”

  Sandro shook his head thoughtfully. “No,” he said, “but they are familiar. Once my master Fra Lippi took me to the house of the astronomer Toscanelli. He used signs like these in his charts to represent stars or planets or some such thing.”

  Fresina wrinkled her face. “Planets?”

  “Stars that don’t keep to a fixed position but move around the sky,” Sandro explained.

  “Ah, we know them in Circassia,” said Fresina. “They are the daughters of Tleps, the fire god. You see? I told you there was sorcery in this.”

  “Stars? Planets?” Leonardo banged his fist down on the drawing in frustration. “But that makes no sense at all!” He chewed his lip for a moment. “There’s only one thing to do,” he decided. “We have to go and see this astronomer, Toscanelli. Maybe he can tell us how the stars can be made into a weapon.”

  “I shall make him talk,” said Fresina.

  “No, you’re going to stay here,” Leonardo told her firmly.

  “You leave me here?” the girl protested.

  “They’re looking for the two of us. There’s more chance we’ll be recognised if we go together. If we’re caught, you know what will happen.”

  “Very well, I shall stay,” Fresina agreed grudgingly. “But only if Sandro’s mother brings more pastries.”

  16 THE DOOR TO THE UNIVERSE

  They had no trouble finding Toscanelli’s house. It reared up above the surrounding rooftops like a stony finger pointed emphatically at the heavens.

  Sandro had borrowed a splendid red coat from one of his brothers and over this he wore a jewelled amulet of his mother’s. “Remember to let me do all the talking,” he warned. “This is a very distinguished scholar who has no time for riff-raff. I will take on the role of a fine gentleman, and you will be my servant.”

  “Your servant?”

  “Dressed like that, what else could you possibly be?”

  Sandro yanked on the bell pull. After a few moments an elderly woman opened the door the merest crack.

  “Well?” she demanded suspiciously.

  “I am here to see the noble Maestro Paolo da Pozzo Toscanelli,” Sandro announced grandly. He was being so grand he did not even look at the woman when he spoke to her.

  “Is he expecting you?” the woman asked. She did not sound impressed.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Sandro answered – not so convincingly, in Leonardo’s view. “The wise man expects every
thing in advance, no matter how unexpected it may be.”

  “He knows you, does he?” the woman inquired.

  “Are you casting doubt upon the breadth of his knowledge?” Sandro countered. “How could he not know me?”

  The woman frowned and mumbled to herself. “I suppose you had better come in,” she conceded. “Perhaps the master will know what you’re talking about.”

  She opened the door, admitting them to a reception hall from which a stairway ascended to the upper reaches of the house. “Wait here while I inform the master of your arrival,” she said. “By the way, who are you?”

  “Tell him the noted artist Alessandro di Mariano Filipepi is here on a matter of great importance,” Sandro instructed her.

  Leonardo groaned inwardly. He had never heard Sandro use his proper name before and it sounded very pompous.

  The woman started stiffly up the stairway. As soon as she was out of sight, Leonardo rounded on his friend. “Did you really have to talk such rubbish?”

  “It got us in here, didn’t it?” Sandro retorted. “Besides, you need to remember that I am the master here. I’ll thank you to show me some respect.”

  A long time dragged by before the servant reappeared and beckoned them to follow her upstairs. She took them to an upper room and left them there. It was a library, the walls lined with books and scrolls. On a desk there were sheets of parchment covered with rows of figures. Beside them lay an assortment of mathematical instruments, interlocking wheels and elaborate brass dials.

  “You see, we’ve come to the right place,” Sandro observed with satisfaction. “This is a man of knowledge. Look, he has the works of Aristotle, Strabo, Ptolemy.”

  “Yes, I’m sure they’re all good friends of his,” said Leonardo distractedly.

  A door opened and a tall, elderly man entered the room. Below his wide brow a long, hooked nose overshadowed his rounded lips. From his slight chin a narrow beard curled down to his chest like a silver ribbon. He was dressed in colourful eastern robes and a turban that made him look more like a wizard than a scholar.

  The two visitors bowed but Toscanelli did not seem interested in their display of good manners. He peered at Sandro as though he were a rare species of beetle.

  “I didn’t recognise the name you gave, but I’m sure I recognise you,” he said.

  “I was here once before with Fra Filippo Lippi,” said Sandro.

  A merry twinkle appeared in Toscanelli’s sharp eyes. “Lippi, that rogue,” he beamed. “Where is he? Chasing the girls as usual, I suppose.”

  Sandro cleared his throat. “I believe he is engaged on an altarpiece.”

  Toscanelli let out a bark of laughter then peered at Sandro again. “Lippi had a different name for you. Botticelli he said your name was – the Little Barrel.”

  “A nickname I have acquired through my brother,” said Sandro. “It seems to have stuck with me.”

  “And this is…?” The astronomer waved at Leonardo.

  “His cousin,” Leonardo put in quickly before Sandro could speak.

  Sandro winced as though someone had stepped on his toe. “Yes, my cousin,” he agreed reluctantly. “A simple country lad I have taken under my wing. I’m doing my best to broaden his mind.”

  “Then you’ve come to the right place,” Toscanelli chortled. “So what do you think of my library, young man?”

  “I haven’t read many books,” Leonardo replied uneasily.

  “That’s good!” Toscanelli declared. “That means your mind is your own. My work is devoted to proving most of them wrong anyway,” he added with a chuckle. “But perhaps I can impress you with something else.”

  Beckoning them to follow, he started up the spiral staircase in the corner of the room. This led to a plain door, where the astronomer halted. “Do you know what I keep in this room?” he asked, with an impish glint in his eye.

  “More books?” Sandro offered.

  Toscanelli laughed.

  “Treasure?” said Leonardo.

  Toscanelli laughed even louder and patted Leonardo on the shoulder. “You at least are closer to the truth than your cousin. In here I keep the whole Universe.” He accompanied this statement with a grandiose sweep of his arm that set his baggy sleeve flapping in Leonardo’s face. Then he flung open the door and led his visitors inside.

  A round wooden table occupied the centre of the room and spread out across it was a sheet of fine goatskin parchment. On this was painted a map of the world, from the westernmost tip of Spain to the fabled empire of Cathay, from the sun-scorched deserts of Libya to the frozen island of Thule in the furthest north.

  Snaky blue rivers spread like veins across the lands where painted towers, trees and weird beasts illustrated the wonders of each country. Surrounding the sweeping mass of the continents was the vast ocean, its gleaming blue surface dotted with tiny islands and its edges churned to a froth by the writhing coils of the monstrous serpents that were believed to lurk out there.

  The curving walls of the room were covered with elaborate charts that marked out the entire night sky. Delicately traced over the patterns of the stars were beautiful pictures of the constellations: a hunter with his hounds, a pair of twins, a scorpion, a bull and all the other inhabitants of the heavens. The star maps spread up the walls and over the vaulted ceiling. From the centre of the vault hung a silver lantern that illuminated the world below like a miniature moon.

  Leonardo and Sandro stared in wonder, their eyes drifting from the colourful outlines of the earth to the circuit of the skies that encircled them on every side.

  Seeing their expressions, Toscanelli beamed proudly and waved a hand over the map. “Here, you see, I am making a grid across the earth. Once I have completed my measurements, I intend to chart a course that will take a ship across the western sea, around the globe of the world to India and Cathay. And who knows what mysterious islands might be discovered along the way, what strange tribes and wondrous beasts!”

  He pointed to some lines on his sky charts. “Here I have recorded the paths of comets across the quarters of the firmament. How many nights I have gone without sleep measuring their progress! But how much I have learned as a result! Contrary to Aristotle, I have proved that the comets move beyond the orbit of the moon and that they follow regular courses, just as the planets do.”

  “The planets!” Sandro exclaimed, as though he had just woken from a dream. “That’s why we’re here.”

  Toscanelli glared down his nose. “If you have come here for a horoscope, I suggest you go now. I leave those matters to quacks and deceivers.”

  “That’s not what he means,” said Leonardo. He reached into his tunic and pulled out the drawing. He had carefully folded the paper so that only the part showing the mysterious symbols was exposed. “We came across this sketch,” he said, “but we don’t know what to make of it.”

  “We were hoping you could shed some light,” Sandro added.

  “You intrigue me,” Toscanelli said. “Let me see.”

  Leonardo handed over the paper. The astronomer took out a pair of spectacles and balanced them on his nose. Then he peered at the drawing and tilted his head curiously to one side, running a finger over it and making a low whistling noise between his teeth.

  “Do you understand it?” Leonardo asked.

  “Of course I understand it,” Toscanelli replied distractedly. “This symbol on the left – the circle with the arrow – that represents the planet Mars. The next one – the hooked cross – is Jupiter. And the third – the circle with the cross – signifies Venus, the morning star.”

  “And the lines coming from them, those are the movements of the planets?” Sandro inquired.

  “Don’t be absurd,” said Toscanelli. “The Greek astronomer Ptolemy demonstrated centuries ago that the planets move in circles around the earth, not in straight lines. There’s some sort of relationship of lines and angles marked out here, but it has nothing to do with planetary orbits.”

  “Then w
e’ve solved nothing,” Leonardo sighed.

  “Not necessarily,” said Toscanelli. With a flick of his wrist he threw open the entire sheet and laid it on his desk where he smoothed out the creases with his long bony fingers.

  Leonardo started. He had not intended to entrust the astronomer with the plan of the machine, and moved to snatch it away, but Sandro signalled him to stay back.

  Toscanelli ran a finger over the drawing, sucking on his teeth as he examined the details. “What is this intended to be?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” said Leonardo. “But it’s very important that we learn what it does.”

  “Oh, I can answer that question easily,” said Toscanelli. “It doesn’t do anything at all.”

  17 THE SECRET OF THE EGG

  Leonardo stormed off down the street, one hand clapped hard to his hat, his face set in a glowering rage.

  “I don’t see why you’re taking this so badly,” Sandro panted as he struggled to keep up.

  “It can’t be true,” Leonardo said vehemently. “It must work.”

  “You heard what Toscanelli said,” Sandro told him. “The parts don’t connect up. If you built this machine, it would do nothing at all.”

  “He’s wrong,” Leonardo asserted stubbornly. “The machine must work.”

  “Oh, so the great Toscanelli, the most brilliant man in Florence, is wrong,” said Sandro, “and you, Leonardo da Vinci, the apprentice, the boy from the country, you are right?”

  “Yes,” said Leonardo firmly. “I must be right, otherwise nothing makes sense.”

  They stepped aside and pressed themselves against the nearest wall to avoid a flock of sheep that was being driven down the street towards the market. Once the sheep had passed they made their way to the Piazza del Duomo, the square that spread out before the entrance to the cathedral. The cathedral was always referred to as the Duomo, the House of God.

  “It may be that you simply made a mistake in your copy of the drawing,” said Sandro.